the FEROCITY

A Poet's Diary

“Without knowing any of the details, however, he guessed, with the accuracy of a mind sharpened by hatred.”
Phuket, Thailand (August 2012) “My throat is the ocean now.”
“Macon, please don’t use that language in front of the children.”
Honestly, I’ve found that the word “succulent” is not entirely unlike the word “moist.”
“She was the third beer.”
Until next time, LA.
“The fathers may soar / and the children may know their names.”
“If you ever find me / I won’t be there.”
Another Saturday in Los Angeles.
Self Portrait as “Not In The Mood”

You never forget your first “faggot.” Where you were when the word first came hurtling at you, who sent it flying in your direction, and what happened when it finally hit you. You never forget if a fist or baseball bat came swinging right behind it, or if the word was whispered, or spray-painted, if it came costumed in another word’s clothes: sissy, punk, different, queer, pansy. You never forget your first “faggot” because the memory makes you.

from “Coming Out to Myself” 

Across the street from my office building.
Right side of the house.
Four houses down.

I wrote about Mark Carson, the anti-gay attacks in New York City, and the cities we run away to… 

Maybe it’s the refuge that never was. Maybe all we’ve ever done is escape from one seemingly intolerable place only to put down roots in a place we ourselves could tolerate.